Inevitability
by GiorgiaKerr
Summary: Everything happens eventually; some just need a shove in the right direction. D/M.
1. Chapter 1

**Spoilers:** I feel a chapter story coming on. What do you think?

**Disclaimer:** I combined a few different things I was working on into one piece. Hope it flows well…

**Author's Note:** Okay. Last day of summer holidays, and it's _raining_. Raining and cold. I'm wearing a jumper and wooly, knee-high socks! And I'm still cold. Evil, evil weather.

* * *

Martin tried not to squirm as Danny just stared.

"No coffee?" Danny asked finally, his voice holding a definite amount of incredulity, laced with a definite amount of dread. Martin shook his head, lips slightly pursed.

"Not a _single drop_," he enunciated. To Martin's surprise, Danny started to laugh.

"You? Martin Fitzgerald; the one with the coffee cup permanently affixed to his face. You!" Danny seemed to find this more amusing than he really should have, but deciding that he found Danny comments humorous and not insulting, Martin grinned.

"I was only a kid," he reminded Danny, who looked dubious. "But really. No coffee for a _week_…"

Danny laughed as Martin shuddered and took a sip of his coffee as if to prove to himself that it did exist after all. He'd only been fifteen, but there had been enough sleepless nights of homework assignments and sci-fi marathons on television for him to have already been a coffee drinker. And an avid one at that. The percolator that had lived in his parents' kitchen was rarely-if-ever cold.

After Danny's laughs subsided – Martin really didn't see what was so funny, despite his own amusement – he smirked and looked up at him.

"So what prompted that stint?" Danny asked, seeming to be honestly curious. This worried Martin. He'd gone out for coffee with Danny because they'd finished early – finding missing people didn't really have a time clock – but had been ordered home. Danny had offered, and Martin's first reaction had been to decline and run away, but he knew he wasn't going to sleep any time soon. For one, his neighbors seemed to take it upon themselves to make the building shake with noise during the afternoon.

But now Danny was asking lots of questions that Martin didn't want to answer. Questions about things he was ashamed of, despite not really having had any say in them; about parts of himself he'd never really told anyone about; about parts of his life that no one had ever bothered asking after.

It was all depressingly similar to a date. Or an interrogation; he wasn't sure which. He wasn't sure which would be worse, or, really, whether there was any difference. Now Martin was left with the choice of lying to Danny, breezing over things, or actually telling the truth. He sighed.

"Etiquette and Grooming classes," he said bitterly, showing Danny that these weren't, in fact, the highlight of his childhood. Danny snorted, not surprisingly.

"Seriously?" he asked, obviously trying to keep a lid on his amusement. "Oh, my God."

And this was why Martin didn't date. Questions led to answers which led to mockery, which led to anger, which led to shutting off. And, almost always, led to an empty bed. Not, he reminded himself quickly, that this was a date. Because dates were romantic. Hence the not.

"Shut up, Danny," was what he settled for, annoyed at himself for ever having agreed to this. "Bane of my childhood, bar my father." And why did he add that? What in Danny was it that prompted him to say these things? And now Danny was laughing. At him.

Incredible.

Martin glared his most vicious and threatening glare at Danny, who ignored it completely. Well, perhaps this was better than mocking.

Danny just kept laughing, seemingly unconscious of the looks he was beginning to draw from the other customers. Then again, he probably knew; knew the sparkle that was in his eyes as he laughed, knew that it drew people, knew how very much that smile and that laugh could evoke in people.

In Martin.

He cursed his brain for its traitorous thoughts, and looked again at Danny. Who was still laughing, though fewer hand gestures accompanied it now. He remembered the actual classes that he had attended, and couldn't help but snort at the stupidity of it all. The woman who had taught them – Martin and a few other kids whose parents hadn't been bothered to handle them over Spring Break – had been a terror right out of a fifties homemaker magazine. Only worse, because she wasn't a housewife. She was just a bored wife.

"Ever wanted to know the difference between how men hold a champagne flute and how women do?" he asked, voice cold but for the smile that lit his words. Danny stopped laughing for shock, and raised an eyebrow.

"Flute?" he asked with a snort of laughter. And of course that would be the thing he picked up on. Martin could think of a few other things that men and women held differently, but bit his tongue. That would be what people considered inappropriate conversation. And Danny was starting to laugh in earnest again. That was just great.

Martin didn't really register what he was saying before he began. Now that the memories were back, they were kind of hard to ignore.

"Or a water glass?" he asked. He barely registered that Danny laughed harder. "Or how to stand up without using your torso?" he offered, sounding like a travel agent.

"And that, Fitz, must be why you're so damned graceful," Danny managed, barely getting the words out for laughter. Martin was pretty close to sure that that hadn't been a compliment. He allowed himself a small smile.

"Ugh. _Man_, that sucked!" He looked again at Danny who had tears in his eyes. "It's really not that funny," he pointed out, forcing himself not to pout. Danny scoffed, probably at Martin's defensiveness.

"Don't be so juvenile," he chastised. Martin only stared at him. _Juvenile_? Danny was the one who had just laughed himself to tears over nothing. "It's just, while I was out getting wasted, you were learning how to hold a lobster fork," Danny cried, laughing again.

Martin rolled his eyes, but smiled. "'Lobster fork: a long, thin fork that is quite long and thin,'" Martin recited from memory. He couldn't believe he still remembered all of that so clearly. Though, there were just some things that one tended to remember. At the time, his fifteen-year-old self had reacted much as Danny was now. He had been just about on the floor, only on the inside. Outwardly, there had just been the occasional choke.

Danny, on the other hand, was about to fall off his seat.

* * *

Danny was surprised. Pleasantly, yes, but surprised nonetheless. Martin was joking about his past, a rare occurrence by any means. There was still bitterness in his voice, but Danny didn't expect that to go away any time soon.

Danny decided to push Martin a little this time, though. He'd let him get away with too much too many times before; just allowing him to shut off and not-talk, staring off into something Danny couldn't see. He wanted to gain some ground, so to speak. Some ground that had always been elusive to Danny.

Mostly, he figured, because Martin wanted it to be. But that had never stopped Danny from prodding. In a selfish and sadistic way, Danny always wanted to know more, to let Martin open up in a way he was sure Martin didn't want to and probably never had.

Still, that didn't stop him from laughing. He'd honestly tried to stop, to take Martin's glare seriously, but the image of a teenage Martin sitting perfectly still while his lungs just about exploded with suppressed laughter was too much. He couldn't picture Martin with the ability to remain calm and not blush for any extended period of time. Besides, the image of this Martin was a new one.

He'd thought vaguely about it before. Martin looked so much like a child sometimes when talking about his past – a wounded, reprimanded child – that the image wasn't hard to conjure.

And it was adorable and hilarious at the same time. That, and Danny was sure that if he weren't laughing, he'd be fighting the all too common urge to hug Martin. Danny had shuddered inwardly the first time he had felt this. This thing that wasn't lust – not at all – and was so disconcerting that it surprised even him.

It wasn't that he hadn't felt it before – he had. It was just that he had never felt it for an _adult_ before. And of all the people he could have felt this… thing for, why the _hell_ did it have to be Martin?

Even Sam would have been a more likely candidate than him. Sam, because this wasn't attraction so much as affection; a protectiveness and a fondness. Now, he had never been attracted to Samantha any more than he had Vivian – she was like a sister to him, and really not his type – but Martin. Martin had sent off freaking sirens in his head, reminding Danny every time he saw him just how much he wanted him.

But _this_ wasn't want. It was possibly the closest thing to love that Danny had felt in a very, very long time.

Danny pulled himself out of his thoughts as he realized that Martin was glaring at him. And that he was still laughing. _Oops_. He dragged his expression back into line, regaining control of his emotions as best he could and plastered his patented smirk to his face. He knew it drove Martin nuts. In more ways than one.

"Sorry," he apologized meekly, taking a sip of his coffee. He knew full well just how unapologetic he sounded; didn't really care. "Really, it's…" Danny fumbled as the image of Martin flitted back into his head. "You!"

Martin sighed angrily. "Shut up, Danny," he huffed, about as irritated as Danny was apologetic. His smirk widened. "It was a very dark period in my life," Martin declared, melodramatic and sarcastic.

Danny snorted and calmed a little, still smirking.

"Yeah, Fitz, I bet it was," he replied, tone matching Martin's perfectly. Martin smiled at him with a rare smile; the real one.

Danny wanted very much to kiss Martin in that moment, but refrained. He wasn't stupid – or blind, for that matter. He knew that Martin had a thing for him. It was just that he didn't know what that 'thing' was; or whether Martin himself was even aware of it. Danny had slept with enough 'straight' men to know the difference between repression and outright denial.

Martin, he supposed, was somewhere smack-bang in the middle. He snorted as the words converged in his head to form a literal – and literary – middle ground: depression. Of course, Martin wasn't depressed. But he could certainly be a lot happier. And Danny, despite his best efforts and his not-very-persuasive logical side, wanted to help him with that.

But not now. Now, Danny just chuckled soundlessly once and nodded at Martin over their coffees. "Thanks, Fitz," he said quietly.

Martin was obviously confused by this statement, but nodded back.

* * *

Martin stood back a little to watch his partner leave the café, following after handing the waitress a tip to excuse his hesitation. It didn't seem to faze Danny, though, who was waiting for him with a small, unreadable smile just visible above the jacket lapels and scarf that kept his neck hidden from the cold. Martin almost wished it wouldn't be. He liked Danny's neck; had had plenty of fantasies involving said neck.

And maybe it was best that Danny kept that scarf on after all. It _was_ only about eleven degrees; and that thought made Martin shiver. Of course, Danny being Danny, noticed.

"Y'all right?" he asked, concerned. It was about the third thing either had said since Danny had thanked him for something he wasn't even sure he'd actually done. Martin just smiled a half-smile and nodded, glancing at him to make a second of eye contact as they headed down the street, and suddenly wishing they hadn't opted to walk. Whose idea had _that_ been?

He had the sudden and very strong urge to lace his arm through Danny's. Refrained, but only just; instead grabbing Danny's elbow to get his attention. And this hardly counted as 'touching', really. Danny was wearing at least three layers of clothing, and Martin was wearing woolen gloves. Nothing but good, friendly manliness, here.

Then Danny's eyes met his, glimmering in the near-dusk and street lights, and okay. So maybe there was something a little more than friendship, but it was still _manly_ more-than-friendship. They were partners, after all.

A quieter part of his brain laughed at Martin, but it was quickly beaten back by other – sane – parts.

He took his hand from Danny's arm, feeling himself go red, the little voice making him uncomfortable as he glanced at the sleety pavement. "Thanks," he muttered, letting the comment be as generic as possible. For all Danny might decide, he could be thanking him for the coffee, or for last year's birthday present.

But despite Martin's sudden lack of confidence, he still knew exactly what he was thanking Danny for. He felt a little guilty, letting his ego get in the way of thanking Danny for something that he deserved to be thanked for, but there wasn't much else his brain would have allowed. Martin didn't know whether he was hoping Danny would understand or not. Both had their perks.

This time, it was Danny's hand at Martin's elbow, and Martin glanced down to see Danny's arm thread through his own. He felt his face heat up again, despite the cold, and forced himself not to yank his arm away. Martin wondered briefly if Danny had just been born in the wrong century – if he hadn't just maintained some post-Renaissance sensibilities about physical contact from a past life – but still couldn't help but tense.

Danny seemed to notice this, though, because he squeezed Martin's arm – almost hugging it – then leaned in a little closer. "You're welcome, Martin," he said sincerely, almost consideringly – no trace of the cliché 'huskiness' of dime-store romance novels – before removing his arm and placing his hand in his pocket.

Martin risked a glance to make sure that Danny wasn't offended or hurt, only to see a small smile at the corners of his mouth. The same kind of smile he had when they solved a case with a happy ending, or when Elena hugged her daughter.

Almost affectionate, a little proud, and happy. Truly happy; not the usual Danny Taylor smirk. It made Martin a little uncomfortable, but hell; what didn't?

And now the discomfort had brought out his impertinent, sarcastic side. That was always a bonus. Especially with Danny around; he tended to say things that he regretted not too long after the fact. Usually _before_ he said them, really. And that was –

When had they gotten _here_?

Martin looked up to see his building, Danny waiting expectantly by the door, smile replaced by casual smirk, and Martin's sarcasm turned to bitterness as his heart beat a little harder. Mostly at himself, but really, did the man have to look so damned charming all the time?

And yes, charming it was, not pretty, or attractive, or sexy –

"Come on; it's freezing out here, man," Danny said calmly, almost amusedly. Martin really had to stop thinking.

He shoved the key into the lock and charged into the building, climbing the first few stairs without even bothering to see if Danny had followed. He figured he probably had; it would be like Danny to do just that.

It wasn't until he reached his apartment door – a few flights later – that he really acknowledged Danny's presence. He did so by stopping. His back was still turned to Danny, and if he didn't get the message, this would probably end unfavorably. For which of them, he didn't know. But knowing his temper and his knack for screwing things up, probably both of them.

When Danny spoke, his voice was nonchalant, yet the words were anything but.

"So, would it be considered bad etiquette for me to kiss you goodnight?" he asked. The words, Martin's anger and the fact that he really, really wanted to see Danny's expression right now combined to give him enough strength to spin. Only Danny was much closer then he'd thought. And now he was pinned against Martin. Pinned against Martin and a wall – _between_ Martin and a wall – and he smelled unbelievably good. He took a step closer, almost nothing between them.

Not to mention _felt_ unbelievably good, and his expression was about as tempting as they came. It was almost like Danny was challenging him, only… he looked almost patient. Like he was waiting for the inevitable.

Which this was definitely _not_.

It was, in fact, very un-inevitable. This wasn't inevitable because it had never been implied, and it would never happen. By its very definition, it was not.

The thought – and the panic that accompanied it – made Martin jerk back and fumble for his keys with a desperation he didn't know he had. He shoved the key into the lock and almost ran into his apartment, breathing like he'd just run half a mile.

"You okay?"

The voice made him jump. Damnit. He'd left the door open. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, idiot!_ He took in a deep breath, trying to calm all sorts of issues, but didn't turn around; knew what he'd see because Danny's voice was so damned concerned. After three more breaths – and some serious quelling – he turned, but didn't meet Danny's eyes.

"Well, I'm not hypothermic, so something's going right," he snapped, not able to bite back his annoyance any longer. Because it was annoyance, not anger. Well, not really, because anger was an emotion, and he'd sworn off emotion when it came to Danny.

Was lust an emotion?

_Shut up!_

"Yeah, just peachy," Danny retorted, quite obviously equally as mad, and it was just wrong to look so damn cute whilst being so aggravating and so confusing. Wrong, and cruel, because now emotion wouldn't go away. It wriggled around in his stomach as Danny's eyes – his indecently and impolitely concerned eyes – watched him carefully.

This was not happening. Only it was, and now Danny wasn't letting it go. His brain reminded him that he wasn't playing Forgiver any more than Danny, but that wasn't the point. _He_ wasn't the issue. Well, he was, really. If he hadn't been so careless, and so… so _besotted_.

That thought hurt almost physically.

He was attracted to Danny Taylor. Danny Taylor, who flirted like a drunk teenage girl – only better and sexier – and walked like he was having sex. Danny Taylor, who, for all Martin knew, was perfectly straight – hell, until thirty seconds ago, Martin had thought _he_ was. Danny Taylor who was currently staring at him with a mixture of concern and anger and hurt.

His stomach did that thing again, and _damnit_; Martin Fitzgerald didn't do giddy. He didn't swoon, or ogle, or get incredibly distracted by sexy hands and soft lips.

Well, he never used to, and this was just _wrong_!

"Martin, are you listening?" Danny demanded with those pretty lips that Martin hadn't even noticed were making sound.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," he muttered, embarrassed, and _crap_; he was supposed to be mad at Danny. Now Danny was just looking at him like he was nuts.

Though that was probably true if he thought about it. Which was exactly why he didn't.

"What, do you have PMS, or something?" Danny asked with no small amount of incredulity. Martin was hit with the sudden urge to say something really clever like, _so what if I do?_, but refrained for the purposes of maintaining his dignity. And to preserve what sense of masculinity he still possessed. Probably a redundant and fruitless attempt, but there wasn't much else that he could do; not given the way Danny was staring at him. Still.

"Just… go home, Danny," Martin pleaded. _Mature_. He felt like he should be pouting – probably was – and huffing. Maybe stamping his foot a little; just for effect.

"Hey, man, something's eating you," Danny pointed out rather uselessly. "Why don't we get you a drink," he offered. "Got any booze lyin' around?"

Martin had to look a Danny this time, just to make sure he'd heard right. Danny's eyebrows were raised in question, anger gone from his eyes leaving concern and a little resignation.

"Great: the alcoholic offers to help me drown my sorrows in drink," he bit. "I'm in a _dandy_ place," he added, more self-pity than annoyance or bitterness.

To his surprise, Danny just laughed, shook his head a little, and grabbed Martin's shoulder, ushering him towards his couch.

"The alcoholic knows the difference," Danny replied, heading into the kitchen and pulling open cupboards at random, "between 'drowning sorrows' and relaxing."

Martin sighed, couldn't be bothered moving from the couch, and let Danny traipse his barely-used kitchen for something he wasn't going to find.

Martin didn't want a drink. Well, he did, but not with Danny. And certainly not _from_ Danny. For one, Danny's alcoholism made him awkward to be around when there was alcohol involved – which was mostly his own problem, but it was why he never kept alcohol at home – and for another, alcohol lowered inhibitions.

And as far as Martin-and-Danny was concerned, inhibitions were a good thing. They kept Martin from doing incredibly stupid things. Of course, they kept him from doing what he really wanted to, which quite often seemed to be the most excellent choice.

Like, say, pinning his partner against a wall.

"I never drank to relax, Martin," Danny said, suddenly reappearing in front of Martin with a glass of amber-colored something. "I drank to forget." Danny waggeld the glass in front of Martin, who looked at the drink with confusion – when had he bought a bottle of alcohol? – then back to Danny with resignation.

"I don't want a drink, Danny," he sighed as Danny sat on the coffee table in front of him, their knees just touching. He leaned in a little closer, and Martin leaned back, keeping to distance. Danny rolled his eyes and smiled.

"It's apple juice, Martin," he said softly but patronizingly, like Martin was thick not to know that. And, really, he was. This was his home, after all.

And was it a good sign that Danny was teasing him? It was better than Danny being mad at him. For the most part. There was still the small issue of being attracted to Danny – _attracted;_ to _Danny_ – to mull over, but for now, he was okay to just sit on the couch.

He took the juice from Danny, blushing a little when he smirked at him, wondering – not for the first time – what Danny was thinking when he did that. Martin had narrowed it down to two things: either Martin was even more of a dork than he thought and Danny was making fun of him, or he was undressing him with his mind.

The latter was mostly the result of late nights, wishful thinking and an overactive imagination. But the prior was just a bit _too_ realistic. Still, though, if Danny were making fun of him in his head, why not just say whatever he was thinking? He spent most of his free time making fun of Martin anyway – a fact which was both thrilling and annoying – so he was either thinking something unredeemably cruel, or plotting his next attack.

Which, Martin hoped, didn't happen anywhere near a wall.

He felt movement, and looked up from the juice he'd apparently been staring at – or, rather, into – to see Danny's considering expression as he moved to sit next to Martin on the couch. How many times his subconscious had pinned Danny to this couch, he couldn't count, but he reminded himself that this was _real_ Danny. The Danny who offered drinks and brought apple juice. Who was a _friend_.

Who was still staring at him.

This seemed to be a recurring theme tonight.

Martin wished it wouldn't be; it was getting very difficult to concentrate. Thankfully, Danny's voice broke his thoughts.

"No alcohol." Martin wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement, so he just shook his head.

"Nope," he sighed. He offered Danny a smile, glad to be falling back into the very familiar rhythm of their friendship. "My apartment is Danny-safe." Even if said rhythm did tend to end with a blushing Martin and a smirk-slash-eyebrow-quirk from Danny. It was familiar, and that was safe – attraction or not.

"Mm," Danny agreed, and Martin wasn't sure what to make of that. Wasn't sure whether there was anything to be made. "So, you'll let me buy you dinner?"

Martin turned to him, a little afraid, but on seeing Danny's expression – all offer, no subtext – he shook his head and laughed quietly.

"As long as I don't have to move," he agreed. Martin's smile grew into a grin when Danny laughed, and he pulled his cell phone out of the coat he'd forgotten he was wearing. "Chinese place is number eight, Italian place number nine," he told Danny, handing him the phone. Danny just stared.

"You have takeout… on speed-dial?" he asked incredulously.

"Jealous?" Martin teased, a smirk of his own appearing. Danny snorted.

"That, Martin Fitzgerald, is the absolute height of laziness," he said, sounding amazed and disgusted. It was Martin's turn to snort.

"What, you cook a meal every time you get home from a case as long as this one?" he asked, disbelieving. There was no way. They'd been at work for at least thirty hours with almost no sleep, and only a little more food. The combination usually left one hungry as anything, but too tired to actually do anything about it. Cooking? Not likely.

"I reheat," Danny said flippantly. "That's what a stove is for, Fitz. I make enough food on a free weekend to keep me the rest of the week." He shrugged and leaned back against the arm of Martin's couch, kicking off his shoes and closing his eyes momentarily.

Martin smiled, knowing that it was moments like these that he loved. These moments that were just banter and ease; that were calm and unhurried; that never lasted long. And maybe Martin had been wrong. Maybe he wasn't really attracted to Danny, after all. Maybe it was just this that confused him. The comfort he felt while he was with Danny, the ease they were at almost constantly.

He'd never really had a close friend – a best friend – before. Maybe he was just confusing friendship and closeness with love and intimacy.

Martin had to concentrate on getting his coat and suit jacket off to keep his eyes off Danny. Sprawled-on-his-couch Danny.

And he'd been going so well for a few minutes there.

"Honestly?" Martin asked, trying to keep his brain otherwise occupied. It wasn't working.

"No, I believe they were truly invented to make suicide more poetic, but whatever works, works, right?" he said, a smirk gracing his lips again. Martin rolled his eyes and Danny grinned. "I find cooking kind of therapeutic, so it isn't like it's a chore. Kind of nice after a long case and a good thirty hours of sleeping it off," he joked, making Martin chuckle.

Less at Danny's joke, though, and more at the image of Danny in the kitchen, floral apron and all. Then the apron _was_ all, and Martin shut that image out with a thud that mirrored the sound of his clothes hitting the coffee table in front of him.

"So, Chinese or Italian?" he asked. Danny _hm­_-ed then flipped open the phone and hit a button with a bewildered look – something like Martin imagined a published skeptic might look like whilst patting the Loch Ness Monster.

"Chinese," Danny said definitively, though rather redundantly as he had already hit _Call_. By the time Danny hung up – Martin could have sworn he'd been flirting with the other end of the phone call – Martin had settled relatively comfortably into the couch, shoes somewhere amongst Danny's on the floor.

* * *

They were both almost asleep when the intercom buzzed. The silence that had descended had eventually been comfortable enough that they had both just let the exhaustion of the past few days take them. Martin's feet were propped on the coffee table, ankles crossed, his back wedged into one corner of the couch, elbow resting on the arm, head against the back.

Danny was spread similarly in his own side of the couch, only when the buzzer went off, he jerked upwards and felt a pain shoot momentarily up his calf. He reminded himself that sitting on his feet was a very bad habit; one he should have grown out of by now. Which, usually, he remembered; had to because he _wasn't_ a kid anymore, and there were usually some very physical reminders of that when he woke up.

The intercom buzzed again, and he moved quickly to the door as Martin stirred, grunting. That was something he really wished he could see. Stupid as it was to want to see Martin wake up, he wanted it almost as much as he wanted to see Martin _before_ he went to sleep. In a non crash-on-his-couch situation.

God, he was even using euphemisms in his head, now.

"Food," the intercom informed him boredly. Danny pushed the button. He shook himself and waited by the door while Martin sighed and pushed himself further into the couch. Much like he had pushed Danny into the wall outside.

And this, he had to stop thinking about. It wasn't healthy. It had been an accident.

Only it _hadn't_. Maybe at first, he supposed; running into Danny probably hadn't been Martin's original game-plan. But after he had, he hadn't moved. Well that wasn't true; he had, only in the wrong – the very, very, unprofessionally wrong – direction.

Danny closed his eyes as he remembered that feeling – the heat, muscle and flesh of Martin's body, even through clothes – and almost yelped when there was a knock at the door.

Pulling himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, he opened the door to a skinny kid – probably about nineteen – carrying two bags of white boxes and looking as bored as he'd sounded over the intercom.

"Here's your food, man," he grunted, eyes half-closed, and Danny wondered if the kid was high. "You're not Fitzgerald," the kid muttered suddenly, almost accusingly. Danny frowned. How _often_ did Martin get takeout? He raised an eyebrow at the kid, smirking.

"No, no I'm not," he said a little flirtatiously, deciding that he would try to rile the kid. It wasn't nearly as fun as annoying Martin, but it was something. He could always annoy Martin later, anyway. And as unfair as it was to pick on this kid, the fact that he was probably-high made it seem a little less cruel.

Danny handed the boy some money, taking the bags and leaning seductively against the door. The kid's eyes widened, almost to normal size.

"You looking for him, honey?" he asked, basically purring at the kid. Who now looked slightly uncomfortable as things seemed to dawn on him. Danny leaned in closer, shoulder and head against the doorframe, and winked. "He's in the bedroom if you wanna come in," Danny replied, a small part of him wishing that was true.

This time, though, the kid actually choked, his eyes widening, and oh, yeah. He was high. But apparently not high enough to take Danny's offer – it surprised Danny that he hadn't thought about what he'd have done if the kid had actually _taken _his offer. The boy muttered something about deliveries and almost ran down the hall.

Danny snorted a laugh as he moved back into the lounge room, only to find a still-sleeping Martin. He was both glad and disappointed that Martin hadn't heard his exchange with the kid. That could have been amusing.

Instead, he unpacked the boxes onto the coffee table before shaking Martin's shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Fitz," he called, sighing when he got no response, but taking a second just to stare at him. He really was an attractive man. Not that Danny really needed to be informed of that – he was reminded every time he looked at him. But Danny had never really seen him asleep before. Close to it, yes; exhausted to the brink of collapse, or catching a few minutes of shut-eye with his head on his desk. Or – and it hurt to think about it – almost dead.

But asleep, comfortable, in his own home, no distractions… Danny desperately wanted to kiss him awake. He really only had to lean forward a few inches, a foot, maybe.

"Danny?"

He blinked, coughed, then smirked. He prided himself on such quick recoveries, but he was still a little shocked that he'd gotten so carried away that he'd entirely missed Martin waking up.

"Danny." This time it was a statement, and Danny followed Martin's slightly amused line of sight to his hand, which still rested on his shoulder. He squeezed his shoulder once, lightly, before removing it entirely.

"Food's here," he said, his voice more cheery than he'd felt since they'd left the café. "You're on first name basis with the delivery kid?" he asked as Martin perked up and grabbed a box and a pair of chopsticks. Danny didn't bother hiding his amusement, nor mentioning that the kid hadn't technically used his first name. But that wasn't really the point.

Martin flushed red as he began stuffing food into his mouth. He just glared at Danny – as well as he could with a mouthful of food – as he smirked. And man, did he look cute like that. Which was just plain annoying. There had to be a good way to punish him for that.

Danny leaned forward, seriously invading Martin's personal space – like it was actually an issue – and watched as Martin's expression went from mock-anger to cynical curiosity to total terror. At the last second, he leaned in a different direction to stick his chopsticks into the container Martin was holding. He could just about _feel_ Martin relax.

Danny clawed at something he thought was mushroom with his chopsticks. "We have to talk, Martin," he said, offhand as if it wasn't a conversation bound to forever change their relationship. Or destroy it. Which he supposed would probably count as 'change', so moot point. But really, this wasn't punishment at all; this was inevitability. There had always been something between them, and it was bound to change. Or combust.

There were a few seconds as Martin seemed to think it over, getting in a few mouthfuls of noodle in the interim. "Yeah," he said eventually, with a finality that left only silence.

* * *

So what do you think? Another chapter?

Giorgia


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoilers: **Tell me what you think!

**Disclaimer:** I didn't know _tangential_ was a word until I wrote this. Huh. I suppose some words I make up _are_ actually useful...

**Author's Note: **Well, I usually just assume that Danny sleeps with anybody he finds attractive – why not? – but I've actually give him a sexual orientation (and I hate that term) here. Just for the record.

* * *

By the time the next word was uttered, the half-dozen white boxes were standing empty on the coffee table. Martin wanted to get rid of them – partially because he wanted something to do besides sit and feel awkward, and partially because they were dirty and on his coffee table – but he had a feeling that Danny would probably do anything to get him to stay on the couch. He didn't for the life of him know why; all _he_ felt was awkward and anxious.

Which, really, he was used to feeling, but not recently. After leaving high school – like so many other kids – he'd managed to gain some semblance of self that allowed him the dignity of confidence. But Danny, albeit unconsciously, seemed hell-bent on stripping away that somewhat-false confidence layer by layer. It wasn't that he was trying to hurt Martin, and Martin knew this because whatever people may have thought, Danny was a nice guy; but he had this way of reading Martin that was just so...

True.

Danny seemed to know about things before they'd even happened – twists in cases, who would score best in the next inning, how long the popcorn would take to cook completely – and even more so when it came to Martin. He hoped to God that he wasn't that predictable, because as far as he knew, he was a little like his father in that regard. Not enough to make him uncomfortable, but enough to remind him that he was still a Fitzgerald.

Danny made him – perhaps _let_ him, if Martin were honest – forget that sometimes. Having Danny around was really like having an impartial conscience. Well, an impartial conscience with an agenda.

Though what that agenda was, Martin was only just beginning to realise.

Martin had known for a very long time that he had been teetering very close to the edges of obvious flirtation; though as far as that had gotten him in the past, he would have been amazed if anyone had even noticed. He'd not even noticed he'd been doing it until recently, and even then he'd just put it down to a natural response to Danny's own flirtation.

Until a few hours ago, Martin hadn't known the real reason; hadn't let himself know.

The idea that he was attracted – attracted! – to Danny was still kicking around in his head with guerrilla neurons nipping at its heels, trying to get it out. Then they could go back to being pathetic little Work-and-no-Play neurons again, and leave Martin alone. Stop reminding him of why all this was happening.

Things would just be so much simpler if Danny were a woman. At least then he'd know something of how to proceed. Something, because he'd never been good with women, either, but men – or, rather, man, because as far as he knew, Danny was really the first and probably only – were a mystery to him. He knew how his own head worked, of course, but that wasn't really much to go by.

If everyone's head ran in circles – well, spirals, really, because circles actually _connect_ – like Martin's, the world would not be a very useful place.

"You're thinking yourself in circles, aren't you?"

_No, actually, but thank you for noticing_.

And hey. When did Danny become so damn perceptive? And this was what he was talking about: this totally unconnected _stuff_ that just tumbled over and over until he contradicted himself enough to make his head hurt.

"You think too much, Fitz," was muttered amusedly to his left.

_Yes, yes I do_.

"Martin?" Almost exasperated.

_Mm? Want something? I want a lot of things-_

"Yeah," he managed before his previous train of thought became audible. He was pretty sure that Danny could read his mind anyway, though, so he wasn't too fussed.

"Say something," Danny asked, and Martin finally looked at him, quickly shifting his eyes to the precarious tower of white cardboard on the coffee table. And who had stacked the takeout containers? It could well have been Martin, for all he knew. "Martin," Danny said, his voice a little more demanding this time.

He cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said again. Danny waited silently, and Martin was beginning to get flashes of interrogation rooms. He knew he had to answer Danny, or else he'd piss him off enough to make him leave; which, in the long-run, would really not be good. "I don't know where to start," he admitted honestly.

He felt Danny shift next to him, leaning his back against the arm of the couch; Danny was one of two people he would allow to put their feet on his couch. Martin didn't turn his head, allowing Danny only a view of his profile in the now-dark room. _Probably should have turned some lights on_.

"Do you still have a thing for Sam?" Danny asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, voice open and curious. Martin barked a laugh, stunned by the absurdity of the question. How long had it been? Two years, three? Dear God, Martin had thought this conversation was going to be difficult, but now...

"Oh, God," he managed between chuckles. "Sam?" he asked, almost needing the affirmation. He was pretty sure that Danny had just wanted him to say it, say that he didn't have a thing for Samantha anymore; because there was no way in hell that Danny didn't already know the answer to that.

Danny just looked at him with that eyebrow that was too good an interrogator for its own good.

"No, Danny, there is no 'thing' for Sam," he replied with a sigh, showing his boredom over the idea. Martin wondered vaguely how awkward things might have been if he'd had this Danny-revelation while actually _dating_ Samantha. Not that he could have called it dating; more like dinner with complimentary sex, only often.

The term 'Friends with Benefits' popped into his head.

"Good," Danny muttered then, almost to himself, and Martin had no idea what that meant.

* * *

Samantha? Danny still couldn't figure out what had prompted him to ask that. He figured it had been some evil subconscious part of his brain needing the closure; needing Martin to actually _tell_ him that things were definitely over. Which was stupid, because he _knew_ things were over; Samantha and Jack were back together, sort of; it had been over two years, maybe three since the whole debacle; and Danny was, currently, quite positive that Martin was attracted to him.

Not that Martin would ever admit that. Admitting that you're over your ex wasn't a particularly emotional or significant event, even in the introverted world of Martin Fitzgerald. But admitting what Danny _really_ wanted him to admit would probably take more than a question. It would probably take more than one night of redundant chatter and sex to get him to admit to that.

Hell, Danny was pretty sure that even if, by the remotest turns of events, he could persuade Martin to have a real relationship with him, he still wouldn't admit it.

This was going to take some needling. And some very serious over-sharing. He wondered briefly if he should just tell Martin the truth, but disregarded the thought almost immediately. Despite what he was about to say, he could still walk out of this with a shred of dignity left.

"I'm gay, Martin," he said simply, not as a declaration, but as a statement of fact. Because it was, mostly.

And with the way Martin was looking at him now, Danny almost wished that he had just gone with the whole truth and gotten this over with.

So help him, God.

Still, he didn't look away as Martin continued to stare bewilderedly, something like a deer caught in the headlights, only more aroused. The expression on Martin's face was almost amusing, like he was both turned on and disgusted by Danny's sudden outburst. Calculated as it may have been.

He'd seen the disgust enough times to recognise it for what it was, but couldn't begrudge Martin that; it wasn't malicious, and it probably wasn't even turned towards Danny, but Martin himself. And for that he felt a little guilty. But the arousal was new. Usually the whole 'being gay' thing was kind of evident by the time the arousal showed up.

By that point, outing himself to someone was usually rather redundant.

But here, well, this was kind of terrifying. Martin was just staring at him, obviously struggling with whatever thoughts he was having. And that was a silly thing to think, because _of course_ he was struggling with the thoughts he was having. It wasn't very often that a co-worker told you these kinds of things. It wasn't very often that it came up.

Martin's brow furrowed, and Danny had a hard time distinguishing confusion and something that looked like regret. Which was odd, and very unexpected. Martin cast his eyes around the room for a few seconds – either out of guilt or unease – before finally settling back on Danny's.

"I'm not," he said simply.

It took Danny a few seconds to process that.

And a few more to actually understand it.

His first thought was that he'd gotten everything so, so wrong; that he'd screwed up and out of sheer cockiness believed that Martin was attracted to him. Probably wouldn't have been the first time. But then he remembered all the things that had convinced him of that in the first place, and it was pretty clear by that point that it wasn't just his ego, persuasive as that was.

Still, Martin was sitting, which was something. At least he wasn't horrified enough to bolt, because that could have been awkward, and the _last_ reason on that list was because this was Martin's apartment.

Then Danny wondered if Martin were just in some kind of shock. That was almost disregarded because _duh_, Martin had seen dead bodies and child prostitutes and lived with his father, and been shot. But Danny would have bet on the fact that no one had ever said those three words to Martin before.

So he wasn't wrong, and Martin wasn't horrified, and these were all good signs, but what on earth was he supposed to do now? Turn on the television? Grab his coat and leave? Tear Martin's clothes off?

This was all too much. He kicked himself mentally; it was all his fault in the first place.

Danny threw a few things around in his head for a while before deciding on the only question he could think of that would clear things up once and for all.

"But you're attracted to me." More of a statement than a question, but hey. Martin's head snapped up, his expression giving Danny all the information he needed to know. Suddenly, Martin was off the couch.

* * *

_Holy hell!_

That had not just happened. Danny had most certainly not just asked that, and Martin had certainly not reacted that way. He cursed himself for not denying it – not really being able to process anything beyond Danny's words – straight away. Heh, 'straight' away. Ironic.

He cursed Danny for asking the question – though it had really been more of a statement, like Danny already knew – but sill cursed himself even more for his reaction. He could have laughed it off, even; slap on the back and a joke about 'his type' would probably have made the problem just go away.

Well, the immediate problem – the one that wasn't _I'm attracted to Danny_ – anyway, which was something. At least then Danny would stop staring at him, nodding at his non-reaction like he had simply been given confirmation of something he'd already suspected to near certainty. The nod reminded him of his post-Dornvald psychiatrist, and that only proceeded to irritate him more.

"I don't want to talk about this," he informed Danny, moving to stand in front of the window, trying not to pace his living room. "It's ridiculous."

He hoped Danny wouldn't take that the wrong way. Whichever way the 'wrong way' was. Maybe he _did_ hope that Danny would take that the wrong way. This really was ridiculous.

"What we're talking about, or the fact that we're talking about it?" Danny asked, and amazingly, that made perfect sense to Martin, who quite honestly wasn't sure which. It wasn't very often that the man you'd been lusting after for God only knew how long – because Martin certainly didn't – as good as told you that you had a chance.

But that just made things harder. Having a chance meant having to make a choice, and either way that choice went was the wrong way. It was a catch-22 of the most irritating proportions. Martin suddenly remembered the book, lying somewhere on his bookshelf, probably dusty had it not been for Martin's sudden bouts of OCD.

He liked that book, though he hadn't read it for years. It had been interesting, but more than that, it had fascinated him that the phrase, _catch-22_, had actually become an internationally used adjective.

Was it an adjective? He wasn't sure. It described something, but it described a situation. Could adjectives do that? Or was it an adverb? Maybe it was a noun.

But that didn't really matter right now because Danny was standing in front of him, head cocked, eyebrows raised, and Martin cursed his traitorous and tangential mind. Partially for making Danny curious enough to get up, and partially for not letting him realise that Danny was moving until he was only about a foot away.

Far too close, for Martin's liking. Well, too far away for Martin's liking, which was essentially the same thing.

Martin made a relatively coherent mental note to remind him to make his thoughts logical.

Danny's proximity was frazzling.

"Martin, come back to me," Danny said, and Martin was surprised to hear the humour in his voice. That was unexpected. Danny was making fun of him again, which was probably a good thing, really, but he could see some traces of doubt in Danny's eyes, and suddenly felt incredibly stupid.

It hadn't occurred to him before this moment that Danny might actually be revealing a lot more of himself here than his sexual preferences. Despite his somewhat-subconscious flirting, Martin had never really questioned Danny's taste in bedmates. He'd never thought all that much about it at all, really; at least not consciously.

So now, Martin was confounded, Danny was gay, and things were finally beginning to make a little sense.

Like the way Danny had reacted to being shoved against the wall; Martin had thought it had just been that Danny hadn't _noticed_ anything amiss in the gesture besides overworked and underfed irritation.

He heard soft chuckling, and met Danny's eyes with confusion. And that was probably a mistake, because Danny's eyes were quite literally glinting. Glinting in the dime-store romance novel sense, of which Martin had most certainly never read. And which he did not keep hidden on his bookshelf.

Damn tangents.

"What are you thinking about?" Danny asked curiously, softly; not moving, or breaking eye contact.

"Glinting dimes," he paraphrased. Danny raised an eyebrow at the cryptic remark and Martin just smiled a little and shook his head. No, he was not going to let Danny in on his little joke. Danny smiled back, looking oddly relieved, and Martin's tangents went to hell.

Much like _he_ was going to if Danny didn't stop looking at him like that; amusement and affection and something like desire. He hated himself for allowing Danny to have this much control over him; it really was unfair. It slipped his mind for a few seconds just how confused he was, everything becoming incredibly clear and simple.

Martin liked Danny, Danny liked men, and apparently Danny liked Martin-shaped men. If the glinting was anything to go by; evil romance novels putting ridiculous thoughts into his head. He reminded himself to burn them the next chance he got.

* * *

He was aware that he was leering.

Well aware, because he did that a lot, leering at Martin. He was amazed, though, that Martin seemed to notice, in a way that he never had before. It had only taken him seven years.

He waited, but Martin said nothing, didn't move but to stare again out the window, across to the opposite apartment complex, but Danny was pretty sure he wasn't actually seeing anything. Much like Danny himself was currently blind to everything but the man standing in front of him, so close.

He really wanted nothing more than to pin Martin against that window, but he had a feeling that Martin wouldn't be too happy about that. And one never knew with these apartment windows; it wouldn't do to fall to their deaths before he'd even managed to _kiss_ Martin.

That thought was just depressing.

Surprisingly – or not so – it wasn't the 'death' part that was depressing, it was the thought of never getting to kiss Martin.

He'd never really pictured a First Kiss, because that would be teetering precariously on the side of 'romance'. And that hadn't been allowed because this was simply unrequited lust. Nought more than a crush and the fact that Danny was pretty sure he had wanted to tear Martin's clothes off for the past seven years. Until now, because now it wasn't unrequited at all, and though he didn't particularly want to admit it, it was a little more than lust, too.

He still wanted to tear Martin's clothes off.

"Fitz," he murmured, having absolutely no idea what he was trying to say. "I -"

He was suddenly glad he'd never tried to picture a First Kiss before, because _damn_. There really would have been no point anyway; no one's imagination was this vivid, this creative, this _hot_.

Danny had never assumed Martin to be this... skilled before. At least not in anything beyond Latin and dorkiness. He couldn't quite tell if the light-headedness was from the _way_ Martin was kissing him, or the simple fact that he was. He supposed it was both, but the latter was definitely the main cause of that familiar tingling he felt.

Only it wasn't really familiar, because this was _Martin_ and he'd never kissed Martin before; never thought he'd have the chance.

Danny held back a moan of protest when Martin pulled away, and Danny had forgotten that breathing was a necessity. Wished it wasn't, really, because Martin was too far away.

Frowning.

_Uh oh_. This couldn't be good; but at least he wasn't running. He wondered how hard Martin was concentrating on not-running; figured that was probably why he was frowning. Danny reached up carefully, smoothing his fingertips over frown-lines, amazed when Martin didn't pull back. He didn't even flinch.

"I suppose that's a yes," he whispered, knowing he was toeing the line between making Martin smile and making him bolt. Martin's frown disappeared, and a smile flicked across his face even as his eyes darted around the room.

"Danny, I..." He closed his eyes now and took a step backwards. Danny tensed, mentally debating whether he should stop Martin if he tried to run. On the one hand, he didn't want him to leave, wasn't finished with Martin yet. On the other hand, he probably needed the space; they both probably did. Wanted it, though, that was a different story.

"This is going to be weird, isn't it?" he asked finally. Danny couldn't stop the grin that spread over his face at those words. That, there, was confirmation. And that was all Danny needed.

* * *

Second chapter up to scratch?

Thanks for reading!


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